The 12 Days of Sanctuary Christmas
by Saphyr88
Summary: Seasonal one-shots from the world of Sanctuary, one for each of the 12 days of Christmas. Everything from drama and angst, to sexy time and hilarity, from 1880s to the New Sanctuary! Expect all the gang to appear at some point - both new and old - though fair warning for some smutty Teslen in Chapter 3 :D Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year!
1. A Partridge in a Pear Tree

**On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me... **

**A Partridge in a Pear Tree**

_Hurt/Comfort/Family_

**Old City Sanctuary, 2009**

She had purposefully avoided the present-laden Christmas tree in the rec room all day, determinedly turning off any music player or radio which dared to blare out carols or Yule-tide top ten lists.

Magnus knew no one was doing this to her on purpose, but it still made her glare at the offending decorations, and feel incomprehensibly irritable at the thought of being in the same room as... well, _anyone_. The only thing stopping her from laying into them was the thought of their faces dropping to her own, Scrooge-like levels, and twisting her heart strings until it became unbearable. Henry in particular… she just couldn't make this harder for him than it was already.

Sighing heavily, bracing herself for leaving the shelter of her office – she couldn't wait for this Christmas to be over. Couldn't wait until the thought of that present she'd bought nine months ago, in anticipation of this day, no longer mattered. Its recipient would never have the chance to reproach her for being sentimental, or smile at the memory of a shared moment down an unprepossessing cave in the heart of the Ural Mountains. It was the only present she'd managed to buy this year, and she had no desire to open her own.

Almost bumping into someone Magnus looked up with a start, "Will! I'm sorry I-"

"Hey, where have you been all day?" he smiled, unassuming, guileless, "Biggie's getting annoyed – the Turkey's getting cold and we were sort of waiting on you to cut it."

She couldn't help the blank, unresponsive blink which filled the second of recoil that her mind managed at the thought of _engaging_ in the festivities. There was even a tremble of terror in there… at being exposed, of being vulnerable, in a place where there were so many beautiful memories. Her eyes had grown sad and slightly moist at the mere thought, so that Will managed to put two and two together, and started to backpedal almost immediately.

"That is… if you want, I mean, you know, I could… do it… or Biggie. Kate keeps wanting to appropriate the knife but none of us are too sure she won't do something we'll all regret."

Helen gave him a look, "Like what precisely?"

He shrugged, hands drifting into his jean pockets, "Show off and end up lodging a knife in someone's eye? She's a little ahead on the booze," he started miming knocking back a few shots.

She shook her head, a little more reproachfully than she would normally have liked, and started to walk down the corridor, towards the elevator. "She's perfectly capable Will; you should give her more credit."

"Yeah, we know. That's what we're worried about."

In the lift she made sure to position herself to face him, and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Look… if you don't want to join us Magnus we understand, it's just… it's weird celebrating without you. And we…" she looked away, almost knowing that what he was going to say was going to affect her, even before he cleared his throat, "we don't want you to feel alone. You know, after such a rough year."

She smiled sadly to herself. Dr Will Zimmerman still had the capacity to be endearingly naïve at times. How could she explain it? She was always alone. Even in a room full of friends and admirers. She was unique, her experiences could never be completely shared – they took up too many lifetimes.

Ashley had been the closest thing she'd ever held to her own heart, and even with her, as a mother, there were things she could not share, parts of her she could not directly reveal. Her immortality, her Sanctuary: these were the two bars to a cross which only she could bear, and each Christmas as the years rolled relentlessly on, there were more skulls of the people she cared about forming a hill which only she could keep climbing. In the end, everybody died, even the dearest of friends who had lived such a very, very long time...

"Hey, earth to Magnus?" Will sounded concerned, so she glanced up at him and he tried to give his most reassuring smile.

The elevator rolled to a stop, the doors swept open and the two of them merely stared at each other. Here he was, her 'protégé', trying to take care of her, offering her friendship for a shield, rather than tears and regret.

Her smile was a pale shadow of her usual gleam, "That's very kind of you."

"I sense a 'but'…" he posited as they left the elevator, still heading in the direction of the dining room – and the labs.

"No 'but's," she carried on in the direction he hoped she would take, "If one of my oldest friends has gone to all the effort of cooking Christmas dinner, the least I can do is show my face."

Will did a double take, almost as if he was going to ask whether it really was as simple as that, before, mouth half-open, he decided against putting his foot in it and wisely let it go. It was Magnus, why did he even allow himself to be surprised by her anymore? "Great," he followed her into the dining room, hoping this was a positive sign.

The sight which greeted Helen shouldn't have made her throat close-up or her stomach flop, but it did. Her heart literally melted in appreciation: the warm light of the candles, the perfect table setting, Bigfoot and Henry opposite each other, either side of the head seat – left empty for her. Not to mention the delicious smell wafting off of the perfectly golden bird at the center.

"Goodness," She managed after about a minute trying to regain some composure.

"Happy Christmas Doc!" Henry launched enthusiastically, almost desperately, as if he'd been holding it in all day.

"Yeah, Happy Xmas Magnus," This from Freelander, who was wearing her paper crown with some measure of sarcasm, "don't think you're getting out of wearing the ridiculous cracker hats. You either Zimmerman," She pointed at the hatless psychoanalyst.

Biggie grunted.

Magnus' grin widened a touch, and as she rounded the table she lightly placed a hand on the Sasquatch's hairy arm, "It seems you've outdone yourself Old Friend."

He made a grateful sound, "Huh, well 'm glad _someone_ appreciates it..."

"Hey yeah, we'll appreciate it more when it's in our _stomachs_," Kate complained. "Please don't tell me you've got to say grace or something as well!"

Helen chuckled, taking her seat as Will took his, and glancing down the table at her new, slightly different family. They were looking at her with relief, as though they'd really missed her in the last few, precious hours. As though her presence had been something not just wanted, but looked for, _needed_. Henry in particular, looked pleased as punch, and the smile currently reaching into his eyes, through every muscle in his face, was starting to chase away the bitter-sweetness of Helen's Christmas ghosts. He hadn't been this pleased at Christmas since she bought him his first personal computer - all to himself.

He might be a man now, but he was still, in many ways, Helen's son – and she had spent Christmas Day avoiding him as much as anyone else. How wrong she had been. How cold, to abandon him on Christmas, when she could've been there for him: when they could have been there for each other. She looked away in shame, momentarily, and then glanced over toward Kate, "I'll make it quick." She said, prompting Will and Henry – the only two who seemed to care – to bow their heads. It was kind of adorable. "Thank you for the ones who love us, and never let us forget that they do."

**Author's Note:**

So for those who didn't already know the Partridge in a Pear Tree is a metaphor for Christ on the Cross. I hope no one who gets the references feels I'm blaspheming or anything. It's all just metaphor and artistic comparison, no offence is meant, and I'm not particularly religious myself - just as a disclaimer there.

Also DISCLAIMER - I own nothing and no one, and I make no money! Lots of love!


	2. Two Turtle Doves

**On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me...  
**

**Two Turtle Doves**

_Drama/Angst_

**London, 1900**

"Really Helen, do you think Jack is going to have _any_ appreciation for a perfectly written Christmas card? It wouldn't surprise me if he tore it into shreds first."

Her wide blue eyes turned on him with a modicum of surprise from above the flap of the envelope, "James, its Christmas! Besides which, we've been leaving the adnormals out of our celebrations, on the_ presumtion _that they have no interest in participating."

"Well seen as though most of them could only appreciate it on the same level as a house cat I hardly think that warrants concern." He smirked sarcastically, fixing himself a glass of brandy and watching her seal her seasonal greetings. "Most of them could hardly be called Christians."

She gave him a remonstrating look, clasping the card in her hand a little tightly, "Yes, but who's to say that all this time Jack and Alice haven't been rather offended at being left to their own devices at Christmas? Perhaps they would enjoy the festivities immensely, and we've been depriving them all this time!"

James' beady eyes narrowed at her, his dark moustache twitching in thought, "Hmm, I still think Jack would rather be jumping rooftops than climbing down chimneys."

The thought made Helen chuckle, despite her disapproval. "Give it a chance James." Turning to leave, her envelopes slipped her grip, a few strays tumbling to the ground.

"Here, allow me." James jumped in to pick them up, noticing instantly that she had lunged for them first with particular urgency. Making sure to pick them up before her, he watched the expression on her face flick from irritation, to desperation, fear… and then nonchalance, no… challenging. She was challenging him to say something, to air his observations and put his foot in it, and give her a reason to be angry and dodge the real question.

He turned the letters in his hand and noticed that one of them was not like the others. The paper was more yellow, specked with soot and dirt, the ink of a coarse make and scrawled upon the paper with a ill-used pen. He suspected he knew the handwriting, though its slant had changed, and the spacing was smaller – and his stomach dropped. Looking Helen in the eyes, never leaving them, he fingered out the offending envelope and lifted the already opened flap. _Who would look away first?_ He wondered absently, realising that if he wanted to read what correspondence Helen had received from Druitt it would have to be him.

Her eyes darted down to the page once he had started reading, and she felt dumb, physically incapable of doing or saying anything. She'd gotten it this morning, snuck into her top draw - a discovery which had sent a bolt of fear through her so strong she thought herself in the grip of a heart attack. But of course he could appear in her rooms at any time. He knew her house, knew her rooms, intimately. He would always be able to find his way back.

She was trembling at the thought, and yet, it wasn't entirely horrible. Even now, she couldn't admit it aloud, but… the thought of him being there, so close to her, drawn back by a force so powerful - it gave her an odd, perverse sort of pleasure alongside the torment.

In the grip of it she hadn't quite registered James' bitter expression, or the way his hands had tightened around the paper, the disappointment in his voice.

"You do know he's only trying to lure you in?"

She didn't respond, merely pressed her lips together. She couldn't give up, how could she give up? John hadn't.

"_Helen_," he implored, "who knows what sick game has taken his fancy this time?" He tried to gauge her expression and shook his head as he realised her frame of mind. "It is _much_ too dangerous to toy with wishful thinking – there's absolutely _nothing_ to indicate that he has changed-"

"I don't expect him to," she admitted quietly, taking him by surprise.

His thunder faltered slightly, "Then why do I _still_ get the feeling that you'd quite readily take up his invitation, hmm?"

"James." Her eyes locked onto his with all seriousness, "He can't do anything to me skating on the River Thames that he couldn't do right now, or anytime, right here in the Sanctuary. The only thing keeping him away from us is himself – surely you had already realised that?"

He had, but it still didn't make him feel any better about Helen putting herself in way of harm. In fact, he was considering writing to Tesla and asking whether there was any electrical field they might be able to install which might keep Druitt out in the cold like the murderous dog he was – and give her some shelter from his ubiquitous presence.

"Besides it's Christmas," she sighed, hiding the tremor in her voice and hands which indicated her own concerns at her plan of action. "No one deserves to be alone at Christmas."

"I beg to differ." Watson muttered stiffly, shaking his head for the umpteenth time. "Can't you see this is just madness, absolute madness! It is a lapse one way, and then the other – you simply _cannot_ allow yourself to keep being drawn in-"

"He needs our help James. Whether he wants it or not, he is not, can never be, beyond our assistance – it doesn't matter what he's done," Watson baulked instantly at the statement, "isn't that what we always tell any, every creature coming here?!" She pressed, "It's not the past, it's the _future_ that matters most-"

"And it's the future that he keeps ripping into paper snowflakes every, single, time you come within a whiff of the Druitt we used to know Helen. John is already gone." She pulled away from him as though she'd been stung, "You are simply denying-"

"Denying what? That he's a killer?" she locked her stony gaze upon him, "I don't think I will ever forget that, but thank you," she narrowed her eyes at him, drawing herself upright, haughty and proper, "thank you for reminding me. Otherwise I might've forgotten the night I witnessed him slitting a girl's throat."

Watson growled in frustration, "And what makes you think that this time will turn out _any_ differently?!"

Angrily she collated her envelopes and removed the letter from his hand with a jerk, "Nothing James! Absolutely bloody nothing." She started to sweep around him, tears starting to form in the corners of her eyes, "It still doesn't change the fact that I have to try."

_I owe him that at least_, was the one part of that sentence that she couldn't admit aloud.

**Author's Note: **I was originally going to make this a tale of two Helen-s, and show you how differently her future self and past-self celebrated this year… But then I got sucked into the drama! And it kind of matches the theme perfectly actually. Two Turtle Doves represents the Old and New Testament – one being all about the obeying and the fire and brimstone, and the other being all about the love and the salvation and redemption. No prizes for guessing who is exemplifying which approaches here. ;)

Jack, of course, is Spring-Heeled, and if he was their first inhabitant in the Sanctuary [as Tempus informs us] then I'd like to point out to the fan community at large that before 1898 the Sanctuary as an organisation or entity did not exist... and now I'm going to dash off and edit my Griffin stories to reflect that!


	3. Three French Hens

**On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me...**

**Three French Hens**

_Romance/Humour_

**London, 1921**

Helen had traipsed down into the chill air of the cellar to find him, wrapped up in her silk house robe and wishing she'd taken the five minute walk to the front door to pick up her coat instead. Though positively refreshing in the summer, the Sanctuary's cavernous wine store was hardly the sort of environment in which one would chose to linger on such a bitter, frost-laden night. Only a creature entirely unconcerned with the thought of catching their death would possibly do so of their own free will, when the chances of warming up in the rest of the house were so drastically reduced. Though, as it was filled to the brim with over seventy years' of quality wine, Tesla might just have braved the cold even if he _had_ been more susceptible to the elements.

He'd burst through the front door just under a week ago now, making good on her invitation to swap the bite of Egyptian sand-storms for English north-winds, and celebrate Christmas with them here. In all honesty, she hadn't been sure he'd accept, but she suspected that the discovery of a palatable local antelope notwithstanding, his unplanned jaunt into the wilderness had exhausted him more than he was prepared to let on.

Not that you could've guessed from the brusque way he had swept in, arms full of "presents" – which had equated to experiments, mostly, that he had taken up half the lab with. Still, it had been a pleasure to see that ridiculous boyish grin of his, and more than entertaining to watch James' expression flip-flop between intellectually fascinated and a tolerance tested to its limit. Even if it sent a paranoid chill through her bones every time Tesla made some lewd insinuation, that James would finally put two and two together, and realise the vampire wasn't entirely speaking from mere wishful thinking.

See, the problem was that after arriving with such aplomb Nikola had gone suspiciously quiet. So much so that Helen rather suspected he was up to something… and a scheming Tesla, was a dangerous thing to leave lying around. So she had gone in search, and somehow, somewhere along the line he'd convinced her into cracking open a rather expensive bottle of 1856 Latour from her father's collection.

"And instead of hiding in one of the secret corridors, you just… let yourself get caught?" she questioned sceptically, leaning a little closer as they discussed the '_incident_' as they were now calling it.

"Well," he hummed on an outward breath, continuing to swirl the wine in his glass as his eyes flitted up to fix on hers with a lopsided smirk, "not everyone is as fond of small, intimate_,_ spaces as you are Helen."

The heat in his voice packed an unavoidable punch, despite the sidestepping of her perceptive analysis with a gallingly obvious allusion to their last exploration in Khufu's temple of knowledge. She shook her head disapprovingly but couldn't repress the smile as she remembered their accidental discovery of the little hall.

Clearing her throat a little and raising an eyebrow she managed to look him in the eye again, the blush of her cheeks being the only sign of her now awakening arousal, "You weren't complaining yourself, if I recall."

He shrugged, eyes sparking conspiratorially over his glass as he leant against the wine racks, "Apparently even dusty old corridors have their uses."

"Such as providing conveniently compromising situations?"

"Precisely," his expression warmed; a knowing look that made her insides taut and her teeth start to worry her bottom lip. "I mean, how long might it have taken otherwise Helen, before you gave in to the inevitable attraction between us?"

She chuckled abruptly, whatever point she had intended to make about their original topic of conversation completely forgotten. "Dear lord."

She studiously avoided his cheeky leer with her nose in her wine glass, a more difficult task than might sound since they had drifted together. They were little more than a couple of inches away from knocking heads, a fact which had not escaped Nikola's notice in the momentary pause.

"Helen?"

The softness of his voice made her glance up immediately, and her heart quicken in response. Whatever was coming next, he couldn't quite keep his enthusiasm for it from seeping into his expression, even as he dragged the moment out into the most delicious anticipation.

"You should look up… just a little higher."

Frowning quizzically in a most endearing way, Magnus tilted her head a little more, angling to catch a glimpse of the cellar ceiling and completely clueless as to what sight might await her. She certainly didn't expect the pale white berries and small green leaves dangling above them.

"Mistletoe?" widening her doll-like eyes, she barely had chance to open her mouth again, much less pass comment, before his lips caught hers and they were kissing. What a kiss, so malleable and yet insistent, raising every hair upon her arm, coaxing her body closer until her hand had thoughtlessly drifted to the back of his head.

The touch of her fingertips teasing along his scalp made Nikola hungry for more. He dared to caress her side, pull her in by the waist, teasing her mouth open for a taste. It was all he'd wanted to do since he'd walked through the Sanctuary door: oh how many times he had nearly pulled her into the corridor, to press against her impatiently and demand that they finish what they'd started. It was a never-ending stream of unfinished business, thoughts and feelings that got beneath his skin and played upon him when he least expected it to. The mistletoe was simply a harmless excuse. A tradition, he'd noticed, that Magnus clearly wanted to avoid as there wasn't a scrap of the parasitic love-plant to be seen in the entire house.

Yet reacting to his fingers, lightly tracing, teasing the small of her back, it was obvious that one would've been mistaken for thinking she had no desire to be kissed. She gasped at the sensation; her breasts pressing flush against him, growing warm in anticipation. Managing to somehow lodge her glass on the shelf behind him, she brought both hands into play, smoothing down the centre of his chest and toying absently with his tie as he continued to kiss her over and over again.

When her fingers started plucking at his waistcoat buttons he growled appreciatively, low in his throat and shifted from her now swelling lips, to track that familiar line to her pulse. She paused, like a fish caught on a cat's claw, acutely aware of the chill finger tugging the silk robe away, across her shoulder, and the descending path currently sending her flesh into flurries of excitement. As they reached the top of her clothes she leaned her head into his, revelling in the dextrous caress of his hand that seemed to deny the existence of two layers of fabric, and make her shiver as though she were already naked. Her hands clutched and smoothed across him, until he was looking at her again, the yearning, the desire in him laid bare for her to see. She reached up and drew him down into a kiss, pressing into him with renewed urgency that took him a little off guard, and tipped him back against the shelving making the bottles rattle violently in universal surprise.

She could feel him smile smugly beneath her mouth, and before he could catch his breath to tease she did something guaranteed to render him speechless. Pulling him by his belt she hitched his hips in line with her own, rubbing against the growing proof of his arousal as she undid the buckle. Now it was her turn to smile, as he sighed into her. Both of his hands started to hastily unbutton the fastenings at her back, craving her skin. He'd even managed to pry one or two undone before the smash of his glass hitting the floor reached their ears.

Helen jumped a little at the unexpected sound, and together they froze, every cell alert to the slightest movement. Their eyes met, Nikola's a little more unfocused than hers, slowly realising what the source had been and where, precisely, they were. He leaned in slightly, forcing her into the space between him and the racks, where she couldn't dash away as her body language implied she might. She wasn't getting away that easily, not now, not when he _knew_ how much she wanted him.

It was the doubt, the self-consciousness, the awareness of what she was doing – what _was_ she thinking? In the cellar, of all places? Hell, was it really wise to encourage him when she wasn't really sure that their encounters hadn't riddled their friendship with too many holes to stay afloat? Her skin was pulsing eagerly with the mere memory of his touch, her body remembering what it was like to be a part of him, and it was so carnal, so physical, she couldn't help but fear that there was nothing else tethering this… whatever it was… to reality. His progress backed her into the bottle of Latour, kicking it entirely onto its side and making her slip.

He caught her, just, though neither of them could save the '56 from its ignominious end. She slipped out of his hold as she steadied, her eyes thanking him, but her body reasserting its distance, even as it clutched a little too tightly to her reclaimed glass of wine, and tipped just a little too much of the ruby liquid down her throat in one go. Collar rumpled and tie definitely askew, Nikola could only continue to reel from the sudden change of pace, watching her lasciviously as he attempted to catch his breath. Back against the opposite wine stack she was eying him coquettishly over her glass, deftly knocking back another swig, and another. _Delaying tactics_, thought Tesla, trying to figure her out.

It was also making her a little tipsy… though Helen was probably going to be the last person to admit that. The alcoholic fire that Nikola had long since said goodbye to, started to prickle her insides, and numb her inhibitions one by one. That's what she was going to blame for the fact that she could practically feel him undressing her with his eyes as he approached.

Trying, and all but failing, to rein-in his most irascible smirk before it gave away his intention, his long hands swept the last remnants of the wine from her grasp and out of her reach.

She pulled a harassed face, refusing to give him the satisfaction of reaching for it, and he merely made a pointed expression in return. "_Nikola_," She warned.

"_Helen_ I'm shocked," he admonished, sipping on the wine and never dropping the self-satisfied grin, "you know better than to knock back a Latour as if it were gin."

For a second she thought she spied a chink in his defence and made her move, only serving to loosen her dress a little more as she lunged, and give him a peek of the lacy top of her camisole. Whipping the glass up nearer his head he watched, with nothing but pure unadulterated glee, as she was forced to steady herself with a hand against his chest and lean against him.

His lips parted, hesitating as their eyes met and his heart sped. Slowly but surely she came even closer, so that he thought for a moment that the same organ beating so furiously only seconds before had suddenly died. He couldn't be less sure about anything right now, than what she would do next, and the suspense was doing things to him that surely, couldn't be natural. Even so, Helen couldn't quite close the gap between them and make her move. She hovered, less than an inch away, and when he closed that barest distance, wrapping her in his embrace, he could've sworn she'd shuddered in relief.

Slipping her out of the top half of her dress he relished the glance of satin and lace, meeting seamlessly with her skin, practically drinking in the sight of the intimate layer now exposed to him. Drawing tight circles around her taut breasts, he quickly tugged at the shoulder straps so that he could finally graze and knead the tender skin itself. She sagged against the rows of bottles, sinking into his ministrations and tugging at his jacket, as his fingers ventured up her bent knee and above the line of her stockings, to the suspenders holding them up. Unclasping them, the back of his knuckle teased a line against that untouchable inner thigh, rolling her stockings down, and firing darts of pleasure into her core.

She made an appreciative sound, rubbing her leg against him in encouragement, rolling her fingers through and messing up his hair until it stood on end as rigidly as if it'd been shocked. The static between them was growing with the friction, as he found his way to a far more intimate part of her body, and started to rub, slowly along the already heavy bud. Her body twitched at the intrusion, nerve-endings crackling at this rare addition to their encounters. Rare for the fact that they were usually too fast, too eager, to languish and tend to each other's pleasure, lest one or the other decide restraint might be wiser after all.

His grasp of her sensitivities, however, was particularly acute. As if he'd made a study of every gasp, every sigh, every half-vocalised moan to locate precisely where to direct the exact combination of pressure and speed to maximum effect. Her body was practically singing in concert, before he even pressed his fingers inside of her, building it into something perfectly designed to unshackle her from all reserve and cry out her elation.

"Dear God," she gasped, reaching out for something to hold onto and failing to find purchase on anything but dusty glass as she grew nearer to the precipice. He smiled knowingly at her, more than gratified to know he was having such a beauteous effect; that the red of her cheeks, and the slickness at his fingers was his doing. He leant his forehead against hers, feeling her breath as it quickened and hitched with his movements.

She shifted in syncopation, urging him on, unable to concentrate on anything but the ceaseless assault currently enveloping her, completely unaware of the bottles slipping out of their lodgings under her desperate, wandering hands. Her body broke into a wave of unadulterated satisfaction, sweeping her in a roar from head to toe that left her shaking, and still half dressed beneath him. She felt, bizarrely, unsatisfied – as though it were only the beginning, and her body was eager for whatever spectacular sensation awaited at the end. The very instant she could form a cogent thought, she looked at him, with such depth that it quickly pierced the bravado of his achievement, and coaxed out of him a rather tender expression instead.

He kissed her gently, resolutely, and she started working off the jacket down his arms, and the still-open waistcoat underneath. She didn't care if he took her on the cellar floor, just as long as he made her feel that way again. From the press of his lower body rubbing against her thigh, she was sure that wasn't going to be a problem.

"Helen?!" called a voice in the distance, a distinct, and familiar voice, "Helen? Tesla?"

Everything came to a crashing halt at the sound of James' voice echoing through the corridor, into the cellar, both of them straining their ears to hear. A shot of adrenaline cracked through the haze of pleasure, starting to chase it away and replace it with anxiety. Explaining _this_ to James could quite possibly turn out to be the most awkward moment of Helen's unusually _long_ life – the thought of it alone was enough to mortify her. Almost as soon as she'd logged the tone and direction of the sound did she start to extricate herself from their entanglement, hastily reclaiming her hands to slip her clothes back into some semblance of order whilst silently, determinedly urging Nikola to do the same. Feeling little desire to be exposed to Watson, of all people, he didn't argue a great deal, but Nikola was clearly in no such hurry to be separated from her. Reluctantly he gave her the space to manoeuvre, along with a look of bitter complaint, which she, as usual, did little more than sigh at and ignore whilst concentrating on the bigger picture.

Then, rather worryingly, he started to smile and leaned in to whisper in her ear, "We could always hide."

She pulled a long-suffering face, "This is James, remember?" she dropped her insistent voice even lower, "He'd see though it in a heartbeat!"

"Helen, I know you're down here somewhere. The lights are on."

_See_, Helen managed to communicate without words, to which Tesla silently replied, _Okay fine!_ with a roll of the eyes.

Readjusting her house robe she shook her head in amusement, at the sight of her lipstick, still smeared around the corners of his mouth. Slipping passed him before she got distracted in an attempt to lick it clean; she sped through the labyrinth of wine in order to head James off nearer the door. One look at Nikola in the state she'd left him and Sherlock Holmes would most certainly deduce the situation in a heartbeat. Something which Helen wasn't quite sure she was ready for. Not when she couldn't be certain whether steadfast old Watson was going to scold her as if he were her father, hate her like an adulterous lover, or admonish her as a friend, for not seeing the glaringly obvious flaw in her choices. Any which way, that conversation wasn't going to be particularly pleasant if it had been jumped on him, before he'd noted the little tells and give-aways, so that he felt the direct and palpable bruise to his ego of having missed the clues. And Tesla would, undoubtedly, never let him live it down.

She was so drawn into this consideration that she almost walked right into James, much to both of their surprise.

He looked down at her warmly, grasping the tops of her arms and keeping them together at arm's length. "There you are," he intoned archly, clearly assessing her distracted demeanour, the rumpled clothes, the messed hair, "just got out of bed?"

How she managed not to gawp at him and give herself away she'd never know - put it down to practice, maybe - but Helen simply shook her head in an exasperation she actually felt. "In a manner of speaking," she groused, "I was woken up, _rather rudely_, by the self-declared _genius_ over there," she tipped her head briefly in Tesla's direction, "and he wouldn't stop bothering me until I'd agreed to share a bottle of _wine_." Starting to feel the cold she started to walk them both out of the cellar, "Expensive wine at that."

"You were sleeping in your clothes?" He almost sounded suspicious.

"Well I was," she turned back to him, "taking a nap…" a girlish awkwardness found its way onto her features, uncertain of whether or not she sounded wholly convincing, and managing to pass for sheepish, "an, unexpected nap…" she shook her head with a smile and shrugged, as if finally levelling with him, "I fell asleep at my desk again."

All too aware of how common an occurrence that had been since Tesla had left behind the transcript of the vampire temple's walls in May, James chuckled in understanding. He noted the way she scratched her fingers through her shortly-cropped waves of blonde, massaging her scalp from the headache the vampire had no doubt induced, and gradually allowed his primary motive for searching her out, overtake his habitual analysis.

"You might be interested in what I found whilst checking up on our resident Pteranodon." He revealed a silk ribbon that looked suspiciously like it belonged to one of the missing presents from under the tree, and Helen hardly needed to pretend that she was intrigued. It helped push all thoughts of Nikola's touch so far inside her mind that not even Watson could manage to detect it.

0 0 0

In the night, however, her subconscious had replayed the moment ceaselessly, leaving her yearning, and irritable, and mad at herself for even thinking about it. At breakfast Nikola, thankfully, did not appear – because when he did, the knowing looks he kept throwing her way left her skin prickling with anticipation. He was driving her absolutely, bone-achingly insane, and then, _then_, whilst looking for some wine for dinner, James discovered the missing bottle… -s, plural.

When he showed her the extent of the damage done to the oldest and most priceless section of their wine cellar Helen was genuinely surprised, and genuinely annoyed – albeit, not quite in the way dearest James presumed.

"_Bastard_," She cursed, ignoring James' wince at her language, and the fact that all the shattered glass she'd stepped over yesterday was now, mysteriously, cleaned up. It was almost as if the bottle from every missing slot had been devoured, rather than accidentally dropped – and she was rather horrified to realise just how many of her father's collection she'd managed to break during their encounter.

Practically fuming she stormed out of the cellar, James pursuing her out of curiosity as much as concern for her blood pressure. Tesla pushing his luck was nothing new, but even this was going a little too far. It made things unpredictable.

"_Nikola Tesla_, _you_ are a _dead_ man." She projected as she entered the library.

"You're welcome," he teased cheekily, before actually turning round and realising not only did she look as genuinely hacked off as she sounded, but James had followed in behind her. His face dropped to one of studious nonchalance, one hand still bearing the book of ancient vampire vocabulary as she stormed in, finger pointing ferociously.

"I _invite_ you into my house, for _Christmas_, as one of my _oldest friends_ and this-" she faltered slightly, her mind reminding her of the injustice of this little rant, no matter how good it felt, "_this_ is how you repay me?"

Nikola had already pegged the situation for what it was, knew that James would be watching with expectations, deductions, that could obfuscate the truth if he played the hand right. He also knew that this is what she expected of him, even if a rather noisy part of his psyche wanted to say _to hell with it_ and call her out, there and then. In truth, however, even he was afraid of where that road might lead.

"It was an accident." He stated with a lackadaisical sigh and wide, expressive hands, causing the most endearing look of surprise on Helen's face.

She'd expected many things, but for him to claim something so close to the truth had not been one of them. "An _accident_?" She even sounded disbelieving.

"Well, yeah…" he tried to look sheepish, but the wolfishness of his thoughts, lingering on her body, were far too evident.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you just trip onto an open bottle of wine and find it just, _guzzled_ down your throat? Silly me!" she scowled, "I swear to _God_ Nikola…"

James could barely contain his amusement, his eyes shimmering with smug self-satisfaction as she laid into him. For Nikola's part, he was finding it hard to pay attention when she had worked herself into such an attractive fury.

"Look I was finishing up that bottle of Latour you ran away from" his accusation stung just a little for the ring of truthfulness, "and I… leant a little too hard on the shelving."

"A likely story," James commented, leaning comfortably against the doorframe, arms crossed and enjoying the show.

"_Did_ you or did you _not_ drink half my father's wine collection?" she demanded, crossing her arms in a way which managed to unintentionally bunch her breasts together.

Tesla really couldn't find the words, even if he knew what to say.

"God damn it Nikola!" she moved to the corner of the room and, knowing what she was after, James was half-way into the room before he realised it.

"Helen," he cautioned, "I don't think that will really resolve anything."

"No – but it will make me feel better!" she posited coldly, as the metal of a gun met her hand.

"Helen!" James' eyebrows were almost in his hairline, the amused lilt in the corners of his mouth undiminishing despite the seriousness of what he was about to say. "As much as I hate to say it… it _is_ Christmas." He glanced back to Tesla, who was watching like a hawk in case Helen really was about to go all out and fire a lead bullet into his body. Little as the momentary pain would ultimately matter; he did actually _like_ this suit. "The last thing you want to do is make yourself feel guilty for the entirety of the holiday out of some misguided sense of having done him an injustice."

"Gee thanks." Tesla bit waspishly behind James' broad shoulders.

Watson ignored him, focusing instead on pressing softly into Helen's arms, reassuring her that though entertaining and not unmerited, her ire was hardly a productive solution. "I'm sure banning him from wine for the rest of the holiday will be sufficient enough to chasten him, won't it old chap?"

_Smug bastard_, Nikola thought to himself, hardly in a position to argue without ruining Christmas for all of them. Besides which, Helen was eyeing him with a devilish deviousness – as though James' idea held currency in more than the current situation alone. She was picturing his petulant, moody reaction to being deprived of this singular, yet ubiquitous vice, and enjoying the thought just a little _too_ much for his liking. Minx.

Confident that Helen had been appeased by this suggestion, and that the gun at her side wouldn't be raised again – today at least – James mentioned something about dinner, and asked her to join him. Staring Tesla out Helen only distantly responded. Giving a faint assurance that she'd be on her way in a moment, James gave the briefest of nods and left them to it, his footsteps clearly moving further and further down the hall.

What could she say? She knew that he knew, that she knew, the truth… he had _let_ her pass off her frustration as self-righteous fury, allowed her the pretence to save face. Surely he wouldn't believe how much she still wanted to finish where had been cut off yesterday? Surely it had crossed even his mind that this game they were playing wasn't going to end well, for any of them? She cared too much, loved them both too much, to lose them like that.

Resigned, she turned to leave herself, when Nikola's hand lightly grabbed her arm, his lips pressing briefly against her cheek. She glanced at a mischievous smile, before his voice murmured, low and sultry in her ear. "God you look hot when you're angry."

Standing a little taller at the tingle dashing down her spine she turned to him, watching his expression archly, as she half-heartedly wafted the gun underneath his nose. "I would still appreciate having a wine cellar to go back to…" She murmured closely.

An interesting thought skittered across his face, "Hmm," he whispered, "I can think of a better way to make it up to you."

Somehow knowing it wasn't going to be a replacement bottle of Latour, Helen pressed the barrel into his chest and halted his advance. Nikola's smile did not diminish one little bit. He merely eyed her, questioningly, sensing that this was merely a postponement, a rescheduling – and after last night's encounter he _knew_ it wouldn't be long before their next.

**Author's Note:**

_This was the reason you started this fic, wasn't it? _

_Mmm Kinda… :D_

Which might be why it kinda sorta turned into this 5,000 word behemoth! (Sorry guys)

**Three French Hens** stand for Faith, Hope and Love: Personally I think the ever-hopeful Tesla, ever-faithful Watson and ever-loving Helen Magnus make for a perfect reflection of the three. (Even if I've woefully failed to convey it here) And besides I've been itching to prove my Teslen credentials and write something smutty!

For those of you bright buttons reading more than one of my stories, you may notice this incident is referred to in **Love Me or Leave Me**.

A big honour must be paid to **Sparky She-Demon** who not only inspired me to write Christmas things, and poked me through a kinda-complaint on 'The Iron Sea' to write more Teslen-y scenes, but who is also to thank for mistletoe making its way into this story. If you have no idea of what I speak – go read her fanfic **Shadow Games**, it's full of Christmasy giggles.

**Update 01/01/13** - just typos - thank you to our guest reviewer for pointing it out! :) *big thumbs up*


	4. Four Calling Birds

**On the Fourth Day of Christmas my true love sent to me...**

**Four Calling Birds**

_Angst/Family_

**London, 1890**

This was her third Christmas without him.

The first had been hell – the stab of betrayal, and guilt, and regret, still fresh. His absence had been tangible. Her dreams on Christmas Eve had been bloody and dark, her eyes on Christmas Morning hollow and red with spent tears. She hadn't eaten much of the fine goose, and had forgone church, still bitterly ruing her choices and decisions, still devastated by her failure to stop him, to help him. Instead she had sat with Tesla in the parlour, in absolute silence, feeling very much like he had been told to keep an eye on her, and yet thankful for his presence even as she despised the thought of being monitored by her father and Watson from afar.

The second Christmas had been desolate, almost an out of body experience: as if she had been watching herself, from a great height, going through all the motions of the holiday – writing cards, giving presents. There she was, an empty smile, nothing more than an automatic response to expected stimuli. She'd spent every last second she could buried in research, until her father had literally shut the book and told her firmly she was to go downstairs and greet their guests. In the quietest moments of that December she had wondered why the one holiday she'd always adored had apparently lost its allure… but she already knew the reason.

This year, was the first Christmas since that terrifying encounter in the back streets near Spitalfields that she had felt some _semblance_ of normality. Maybe it was the fact that life had, slowly but surely, gone on without John Montague Druitt. Perhaps it was the renewed determination she had for her research, or that kindling hope, that the future would not be so bleak as her past. Either way there had been a change in the air. The crisp snow that had fallen this winter had coaxed a genuine smile from her face. The thought of seeing her family and spending time with her friends, gathered under their roof and sharing gifts was something she had actually been looking forward to rather than dreading.

Her father had suggested inviting Watson, Griffin, and (begrudgingly) Tesla, on Christmas Eve this year. He'd stopped calling them her 'friends and colleagues' about the same time they'd injected themselves with Source Blood. Ever since the dust had settled on that particular revelation they'd become permanent features of any gathering in the Magnus household and for all his ire at his daughter's recklessness, Gregory recognised that this unusual coterie of brilliant minds had become her rock in these troubled times… a family of sorts. So he had welcomed them in as never before, hoping that they might steer her through these deep waters, to calmer and hopefully wiser seas. He was called out to an emergency, however, soon after they'd settled to dinner, leaving the remaining members of the 'Five' to their own devices. Helen had offered to go with him, Watson too – indeed they'd all but volunteered the four of them for the task – but Gregory had insisted it was nothing he could not handle, and that they not let the dinner go to waste.

The evening became somewhat nostalgic without him, almost as though they were at Oxford again… if one could manage to eliminate the single most glaringly obvious and central feature of those days. Helen was trying her damndest to do just that whenever the conversation lacked a wry, understated jibe, or one of John's warm, sarcastic chuckles. They'd finished with Brandy and cigars in the parlour, seen as though Helen was the only lady present and, really, who was going to tell Helen Magnus she couldn't possibly join the gentlemen in discussing politics and economics?

The fire roared contentedly, the mantelpiece covered in evergreens and ribbon, the tree, candlelit and twinkling in the corner. Helen breathed in the potent scent of alcohol, bit on an after-dinner chocolate, and closed her eyes in satisfaction. All that was missing was a little music, but she wasn't about to encourage one of Nigel's cheeky little ditties which – with nothing but a piano available – was precisely what they'd end up hearing.

"Mmm, it's a shame you didn't bring your violin James." She said, glancing towards his seat just across from her.

He smiled thoughtfully back, "I broke a string on her the other week."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he straightened out his jacket and gave her an engaging look, "it seems violins don't much care to be plucked for three hours straight."

Nigel chuckled, "God, am I glad I don't still share a flat with _you_."

"What was the matter?" Helen smiled, watching James turn unresponsively back to gazing, appreciatively, into the flames.

"Oh that Glebe case."

"The missing persons?"

He nodded. Even with his exemplary intellect it had taken Watson a good day to identify the whereabouts of Mr Glebe – a galling twenty-four hours that had stung his pride far more than they ought to have. He was distracted though, that was the thing. A fact he'd have liked to have pointed out, were it not for the nature of the distraction.

"I think I heard about that," Tesla mused over his glass, "wasn't he meant to be lecturing at the Royal Society?"

"Yes," Helen replied, "the police were called in when he didn't show."

James' eyes flicked to Helen while he thought she wasn't looking, taking in that spark that she'd recovered in the last year as she explained the case.

Knowing that the reason he'd been so thoroughly disturbed in the last week would undoubtedly rob her of that peace. He just couldn't bring it up. Even though it was news she would hate him for withholding, he couldn't do it. It was not worth another ruined Christmas. Not even for the briefest confirmation that Druitt lived, that somehow, somewhere, he had survived to kill another day. That he had seen him, evaporate from the docklands, and had reports from his Irregulars too that the Ripper was back in town.

The edges of Tesla's moustache twitched with amusement as he sensed an opportunity to tease, "You mean the great detective found himself stalled for an entire day? Watson, I must admit I'm shocked."

James eyed the half-vampire proudly but refused to rise to it. Not that he needed to.

"Mate, would've thought you were used to the sensation by now" Griffin took a sip of his whisky, "'mount of volts you voluntarily subject yourself to."

Tesla's eyes rolled towards the droll witticism in a manner which basically equated to a stuck out tongue, without actually being so uncouth as to physically do so. It was a far more offended expression than Nigel's comment had really merited.

"_Gentlemen_," Helen interceded before Nikola managed to snap out a comeback that would end with one of them stinging from the encounter and leave them bitter for the rest of the evening. She had noticed he'd become somewhat quick to set off in recent months, an ill humour she had yet to account for, and it was beginning to cause quite a rift between himself and Griffin. "Let's not start to bicker, please." The earnestness of those azure eyes, the gentleness of her plea, pricked all their ears, "It's been a… another challenging year."

They all grew sombre at the assessment, feeling the truth of it each in their own way.

"For all of us."

A silence grew about them, the fire crackling. It was oddly peaceful, considering the morose topic, but for the first time, Helen was beginning to feel stronger for the obstacles she had overcome, rather than overwhelmingly weary. She alone, of the four of them, looked into those flames with her forehead a little less creased with worry, her chin a little higher held. The others all had some weight upon their shoulders that showed itself bodily: Watson's head sank into his chest, Tesla's glance hovered introspectively upon the contents of his glass, and Griffin's face crumpled into a gritted twist of lip and nose.

"Huh, ain't that truth." Nigel took another swig, drowning the words he had really wanted to say.

He'd lost his sister this year, a suicide that he felt responsible for – no matter how much the others tried to convince him otherwise. Fact was, he could've gotten them the cash she'd needed in a heartbeat. If only she'd said something. If only she'd asked. He could've plundered from the Bank of England itself if they'd spoken up. Instead he'd been witness to his widowed mother's reproachful tears, his youngest sister's hollow wails, and the watery eyes of a brother so jealous of him he couldn't so much as rest a hand of sympathy on his shoulder.

She hadn't wanted him to steal, his mother had said when he'd finally spoken his mind… she wanted him to make an honest living, to _use_ that mind of his, to do some good. He'd promised her, right then and there, that he'd find a way of supporting them. That he'd take better care of them and use the education she'd worked so hard to lend him.

Earlier in the month the answer had landed in Nigel's letterbox: an opportunity, for an excellent chemist such as himself, to work in the Orient for an expanding company, developing new formulae. The pay was good – far more than he'd ever managed for his research at Oxford, or since, and more than enough to support his family. He had reread the letter more times than he could count, and always, he kept coming back to that same disappointing thought. If he took it, he'd be leaving his only true friends behind.

Perhaps it was time, however. It's not like things had been quite the same since old Johnny had taken a shine to murder. Maybe it was better to move on.

"I don't know that I ever thanked you," she beat Griffin to any declaration he might've mustered the courage to make, shyly casting her gaze to the floor – nervous hands flexing around her glass.

All three of them looked to her, instantly, watching curiously for any indication as to why, exactly, she felt the need to thank them. Helen reached a hand across the gap between their chairs to gently rest upon James', her body leaning closer to Nikola on the couch even as she kept her distance. It was comfortable, comforting, and when Griffin put a hand on her shoulder, she glanced up behind with that smile that could melt a thousand frozen hearts.

"I'm not sure what I'd have done without you three, the last couple of years."

_And there it was_, thought Nikola, feeling the indelible sinking of his gut, _the reason you've not said a word all night_. How could he, when she kept making him feel like it would be a betrayal: to escape the gnawing evidence of how completely Druitt continually tortured her captive heart, to flee the frustration of being so close to her and yet so very far apart. He cared too much, more than a friend should, and yet, a friend he was. It wasn't enough.

Somewhere along the line he had lost himself, become dependent on her in a way she had never been with him. She had dazzled him with her brilliance and left him spun about, _literally_ changed him into somebody new. He couldn't even get her to despise the man who'd ripped out her heart and tossed it alongside those of however many countless whores.

Where was the sense in torturing himself with the one thing he wanted and couldn't have: the _reason_ in starting to resent the one person whose opinion actually mattered to him, the only one who'd been there, through everything? That was why he had hesitated last week, and when he'd gotten here this evening, over dinner, now – to make the announcement which excited and terrified him in equal measure.

He was growing desperate to vocalise it, more and more preoccupied with the fact that he was going. It was a done deal. Come next year he'd be sailing across the Atlantic for America and leaving the dank, obfuscated alleyways of London, the bitter-sweet tang of Oxford's oak-panelled lecture halls to the past. Permanently.

That way, at least, they could still be friends.

Then she'd thanked them, smiling with an ease he'd not seen in two years, and it all felt too much like he was abandoning her, _them_… but mostly her. Running away. Turning his back on the Five, and all the troubles they'd faced.

So he remained tight lipped on his plans for the New Year. He couldn't be the one to upset her, not when she had that happy glint in her eyes again, not when she was thanking them for standing by her.

He looked askance instead, studiously avoiding their gaze, even as he smirked at her endearing expression of gratitude, "Well, how did Dumas put it? _Tours pour un_…"

"_English_ Tesla," Griffin joked, "we're not on your side of the channel _now_."

"You have to admit Griff, there is a certain poeticism to the original French."

"I would admit it, if I knew what the blinkin' hell he was sayin'."

Helen smiled contentedly at her three, argumentative musketeers – in far better humour than they had been all night – and watched the discussion snow-ball for the perfect moment to put them all to shame.

"What do they _teach_ you in English schools?"

"_Free_ schools." James corrected snobbishly, earning him a sour face from Nigel which thanked him graciously for not helping him out.

"_Grammar_ schools."

James smiled at his friend's hasty defence, almost by way of apology.

"Actually," Tesla continued blithely, as if the exchange had never been had, "I'm not sure why I'm at all surprised. I can't recall seeing you ever read a thing that wasn't chemistry related."

Beneath their lively chatter James registered the sound of the front door closing, detected the chill in the air as Gregory admitted the cold.

In the hallway, divested of his coat by the butler, Dr Magnus senior reclaimed his cane, eyes glancing over the sideboard and noticing something new resting in the letter tray. He knew at once from whence it came.

He looked to the man servant, but he was busy sorting his outdoor wear which, Gregory considered instantly, was rather fortunate. Any expulsion on Neeve's part would have undoubtedly alerted Watson's exceptional powers of observation, or if not, perhaps the half-vampire would've heard. In which case, the detective would learn of it again and they'd be back at square one, where this interloping communiqué wreaked havoc on his household. James, for all his discretion, seemed incapable of resisting his daughter's wilfulness – just like the rest of their curious little crew. Even Druitt, it seemed… even now, after all that had happened.

Gregory snapped up the letter and opened it before he'd even contemplated the reasonableness of delving into that man's scattered psyche, his sharp green-hazel eyes darting left to right at break-neck speed to ascertain the ripper's purpose. What he found disturbed him more than an ode to murderous gloating, or threats on Helen's life could ever have done – more so, for it had clearly been left for them _all_ to see. It was as much a taunt to Watson, a sneer at Tesla, a stiff dismissal of his friendship with Nigel, as a declaration of some twisted, sycophantic, damn near obsessive love.

He stroked a hand across his face and tempered his breathing, willing his blood to calm down – it was not good for his heart. Though he might have his health for now he was no spring chicken, and the last four years had made him feel it. The hike to Bhalasaam in particular, had been a rough reminder that his body was slowly, but surely, growing too old for him to keep patching up.

"Really?" Helen's voice carried into the hallway as it arched over Griffin and Tesla's playful snipes. Gregory couldn't quite make out the quieter comment which followed, but knew from its tone that his daughter was enjoying an opportunity to prove herself ever more than their match. A hubbub of laughter and one sullen complaint – the Serbian he presumed – soon followed.

It wasn't even a decision, to not give her the letter, to burn it. It was simply inevitable. Scrunching the paper tight in the hand grasping his stick, he shut down his nerves as though they were merely circuitry, obstinately denying their power over him, and made his way into the convivial atmosphere of the parlour.

"Got to give him his due though eh?" Griffin was grinning ear to ear in Tesla's face, like an adult might condescend a child (an apt comparison, Gregory mused,) "Edison sure knows how to fix up a light bulb."

"Oh, in the heat of an intellectual debate I see." The elder Magnus interrupted with something of a chuckle. Despite feeling genuine amusement, his face was hidden and tucked into his chest as he hurried to the fireplace. It betrayed him to the one person who could possibly notice that it was not a determination to get warm that drove him, hastily, across the room.

After all, Watson knew that Dr Magnus was more the kind of man to watch, as though it were some kind of spectator sport, as Tesla wound himself up into a real snarl, and faltered under his own hubris to come crashing back to earth beneath the weight of his own ineffectiveness. He knew that he enjoyed watching him get back up and act as if nothing had happened, because they all did, and it wasn't like him to turn his back on the show – even for the warmth of a fire after a cold December's night.

Yet turn his back the elder Magnus did, clearly, to Watson's eyes, throwing a paper into the flames once he thought no one was watching; a missive he obviously had no desire to relay, a poisonous gospel.

"Oh yes," their elder responded to his daughter's warm enquiry, "God willing they'll make it through but there is naught else can be done. They're in good hands at least. Perhaps the season will bring the poor man some luck in that matter. Though I fear he shall loose the use of his legs."

As he turned to address Helen, Gregory's eyes met James' and he knew, instantly, that the detective had spotted his feint. Yet the younger man held fast his tongue. There was a darkness there that had not existed before John had turned into Jack, Gregory noted. It possessed him so thoroughly that Dr Magnus knew, despite his fears to the contrary, that Watson would not say a word… not yet at least. He'd learnt the hard way, because of the Ripper, not to simply expound all his observations as he made them. He'd grown shrewder, out of necessity.

"Pour me a drink old boy." He smiled at him, wishing, and not for the first time, that the prodigy really had been his own flesh and blood.

Smiling wistfully Watson obliged, standing up to tip the brandy into a glass and hand it over to the one man he still admired more than any other. Even as the obsessive part of his mind grew ferocious in the knowledge that some vital clue to the Ripper's whereabouts was currently smouldering into soot, the rational part of him recognised that Magnus had his reasons, and they were to be respected. Especially if he wanted to remain welcome under this roof.

"I propose a toast," the old man raised his glass with a smile, admiring the sight of his daughter in her maturity, surrounded not by a half-hearted husband and a brood of well-loved grandchildren… but three grown men of the most exceptional intelligence, who each, in their own way, adored her. His little Helen!

Queen Victoria herself could not command men quite as she did, and though he often despaired of the path life had taken her on, of the choices she had made, he could not be prouder of the woman she had become.

"To what sir?" Griffin inquired amicably as Gregory allowed the sentence to hang unfinished in his parental reverie.

The old surgeon smiled a little wider, catching his daughter's eyes, her mother's eyes, burning with interest at her father's conspiratorial expression. "To the future."

The men's voices were a little sombre to the ear, introspective, but Helen barely noticed, smiling back at her father just as confidently and pronouncing with the fullest of feeling: "To the future!"

Perhaps there, she and John might be reunited again.

**Author's Note**: Four Calling Birds stand for the four messages or gospels of the New Testament: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Roughly I corresponded them to the four unspoken/un-received messages that Nikola, James, Nigel and John have for Helen. :)

Interestingly each of the gospels have a symbol: an angel, Lion, winged bull and an eagle, and are associated with emphasising certain aspects or themes. Matthew for expounding the human nature of Christ and using reason to find salvation. Mark for emphasising Jesus as the King of Heaven, and the courage of his resurrection. Luke for emphasising Jesus' commitment and service to God both in life and in his ultimate sacrifice, and John for emphasising Jesus' divinity, his pristine holiness, and the miracle of his ascension. I am not at all religious but I thought that was kinda neat.

**03/01/13** - Well folks that's it for Christmas-themed Sanctuary this year. I don't do Christmas beyond Epiphany – it's a rule I have – hell, I wouldn't have posted this at all if it wasn't called the 12 Days, and thereby still legit until the 6th January. :) Perhaps next year, if I'm still Sanctuary obsessed I shall continue with the Five Gold Rings. We will see. Hope you all had a great Christmas and wishing you all the best for this year!


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